


hold on to spinning around

by aceofdiamonds



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-22 15:29:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4840715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aceofdiamonds/pseuds/aceofdiamonds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it's ned's birthday and so the starks are having a ceilidh. jon isn't much of a dancer which sansa aims to fix.</p>
<p>“Come on,” she says when the music stops, pushing him gently so he moves off the dance floor. “I’m saving myself for another round of Strip the Willow. And so are you.”</p>
<p>“I’m never doing Strip the Willow,” Jon laughs, hand on her shoulder to keep them both steady. “I’ve still got the bruises from last time.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	hold on to spinning around

**Author's Note:**

> this is because i love ceilidhs and i imagine the starks would too. the jon/sansa is more pre than anything else but i couldn't not include it in the tags. title is from long live by taylor swift

Jon’s finishing his third drink of the night when Sansa collapses into the chair beside him, face red and dress floating around her.

“Having fun?” he asks, grinning when she waves a hand in lieu of answering, her chest heaving with deep breaths. “Sounds like it,” he continues, and then he ducks from the hand swatting in his direction. He pour her some of the wine sitting by his arm. “Here, take this, calm down.”

“I haven’t been to a ceilidh in months,” she gasps after gulping half of her wine. “I forgot how tiring they are.”

“You’re telling me,” Jon agrees, sitting back in his chair. They’re four dances into the night and so far he’s managed to avoid every single one thanks to his talent at coming up with believable excuses.

“Like you would know, Jon,” and then she snorts, a loud burst of rudeness Sansa usually takes pains to avoid. They both pause. Sansa covers her mouth, eyes wide, and then glares at the wine. “I’ve had too much.”

“Or not enough.”

“Are you trying to get me drunk, Jon Snow?” Sansa demands, finishing the wine anyway. Her hair is flying around her face where it has come out of her carefully plaited sections and her cheeks are still a little flushed from her dancing -- somehow she carries this off as intended and still manages to be one of the prettiest girls in the room. “Because it’s working,” she mutters into her glass.

“You and Robb looked very enthusiastic during Strip the Willow.” Jon had felt tired watching them spin and spin and spin and spin around the two long lines of people.

“I think Robb’s trying to impress Mrs Westerling’s daughter,” Sansa tells him, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially in his ear. “Whenever we reached her he blushed all the way to his chest and she was just the same.”

“Everyone’s bright red during that dance,” Jon points out.

“It’s bloody exhausting,” Sansa agrees, wafting a hand in front of her face. After the last few months of hiding in her room as the bruises and the pain fade Jon can’t get over how happy she looks tonight. It might be something to do with being surrounded by her family or the dancing which she has loved since she was little and would insist they all waltz around the room or maybe it’s just the wine. Whatever it is, it’s working.

The bagpipe player steps up the microphone. “Everyone knows this next one so grab a partner and get onto the dance floor for the Gay Gordons.”

Rickon bounds over and offers his hand to Sansa, bowing deeply. As the ceilidh is for Ned’s birthday Catelyn had made sure her kids were all dressed appropriately and so Rickon’s tiny kilt almost skims the floor as he gallantly asks Sansa to dance.

“Oh, Rickon, I would, but I’m still out of breath from Strip the Willow.”

“Please,” Rickon cajoles her, face dropping.

“How will I do for a partner, Rickon?” Jon asks, pushing his glass away from the edge of the table and getting to his feet.

Rickon eyes him critically. Sansa watches with bated breath, her eyes full of mirth as Rickon weighs up Jon. “Okay,” he decides. “But I’m still the boy.”

“Stop laughing,” Jon tells Sansa as he is lead onto the dance floor just in time for the band to start playing the jaunty music. “Right, let’s go, Rickon, you lead.”

“Give me a minute,” Rickon mutters, peering around him at the other couples who have started dancing. If they don’t start moving soon they’re going to get trampled by Arya and Bran who are quickly coming their way. “Oh! I know how to do this one,” and then he grabs Jon’s left hand in his right and attempts to throw his left around Jon’s shoulders before settling for his waist, and that’s them away.

They clumsily march forward for four and then twist and step back for another four before repeating it. By this point Rickon has stomped on Jon’s feet twice and has pinched his waist once but Jon can’t stop laughing as they struggle to keep some measure of skill. He ducks down low to spin under Rickon’s arm; he almost falls when Bran’s chair skitters over too close but Rickon helps him back to his feet and they do it all over again, this time marginally better.

“Look, Mum!” Rickon calls when they stomp near Catelyn and Stannis Baratheon. Jon is surprised Stannis accepted the invitation to Ned Stark’s party -- it’s no secret that the Baratheon CEO has no fond feelings towards Ned and it shows in his face as he leads Catelyn around the floor, both in perfect time. “I’m leading Jon!”

“So I see, dear,” she replies, smiling. “Watch his toes.”

“I am,” he says indignantly just as he lands on Jon’s left foot. “Oh. Sorry, Jon.”

But Jon shrugs it off and shows Rickon his boots. “It’s fine. I don’t feel a thing through these --” and swiftly steps out of the way before Rickon can test such a claim. “Come on, I think this is the last round, think we can make it with no mistakes?”

They don’t. Instead they collapse onto the floor with Bran and Arya bent over laughing beside them and Sansa rocking back in her chair, gasping for breath.

  
  


.

  
  


For the next dance Jon teams up with Arya and Jeyne Poole for the Dashing White Sergeant while Sansa pulls Theon and Robb up to their circle. The fiddle player stamps them into time and then the music flies across the room, bagpipes high and complicated, complementing the crash of the drums.

“You’re not doing the paddy bas right, Jon,” Jeyne laughs as they hop from side to side and then spin. There’s always so much spinning in these dances; Jon shouldn’t have had that last beer.

Sansa is laughing loudly above the music as she spins first with Theon and then Robb. The three of them clasp hands and walk under the bridge Jon, Arya, and Jeyne have made, moving onto their next set.

Coming from such an influential Scottish family the Starks have always been keen to partake in the culture of their country; being an almost permanent feature in their household means Jon has been to more ceilidhs than he could count. He loves the togetherness in the room as strangers dance and laugh, everyone moving around the room as one, making mistakes and getting back up again. He loves the old songs with the Gaelic names and the bagpipes soaring across the rest of the music and when it comes to the end and everyone's too tired to join hands for Auld Lang Syne but they do it anyway.

Jon is a little drunk and he’s a little tired but he leads Arya and Jeyne through each set, lurching faster and faster around the circle when Arya shows off her strength and has them all scrambling for their feet. When they come back around to Sansa, Robb, and Theon all six of them are exhausted. Even Arya is content to do a fast walk around the circle rather than her previous speeds.

“That one’s my favourite,” she announces when the music comes to its lilting stop and people across the room flop onto the nearest chair.

“Mine too,” Jon agrees at the same time as Robb because even though it’s tiring, let’s face it, every dance is, and it’s so fun when they all hang on to each other's’ hands for dear life as they spin too fast.

  
  


.

  
  


Between dances Jon sits with Robb and drinks the slightly warm beer that has been sitting out on the table for most of the night.

“Mrs Westerling’s daughter seems nice, doesn’t she?” Robb says suddenly, voice that high way it always goes when he tries to be casual about something.

“She does,” Jon agrees, grinning into his glass. “What’s her name?”

“Jeyne,” Robb says quickly, again in that transparent way he has, telling Jon that he’s known for a while now. “She’s training to be a nurse.”

“You should tell her you want to be a doctor.”

“I’m not going to lie to her,” and then he pauses. “I could go and talk to her though, couldn’t I?”

Throughout their conversation Robb has been glancing over at where Jeyne is sitting with Stannis’s daughter Shireen and Jeyne has been looking right back every time. “You could ask her to dance,” he suggests.

Robb seems taken with that idea and is set to go over to her when the singer of the band announces that the next dance will be the Virginia Reel. “Maybe the next one,” he says, sitting back down.

“What’s wrong with this one?”

“Can’t do it very well,” Robb mutters, refilling his glass.

  
  


.

  
  


Halfway through the night Ned is ushered to the front of the room and a cake is produced by Bran and Catelyn. The crowd calls for a speech which Ned tries to wave off a few times before a mic is pushed into his hand and he thanks everyone for coming. “All this dancing is a good reminder that I’m not getting any younger,” he finishes with which gets a laugh across the room. “I hope everyone’s having a good night.”

Catelyn takes the mic from him to tell everyone about the food that is laid out in the back room and to help themselves before pushing Bran and the cake balanced on his knees into said room.

Jon’s on his way to see if there are any sausage rolls when Sansa appears by his side.

“We haven’t had a dance yet, Jon,” she says, leaning against him for a second as she adjusts the strap of her shoe. “You’ve danced with my whole family apart from me.”

“I haven’t danced with your dad,” he points out.

“Yet.”

“I was planning on asking him next,” he pretends, catching her hand when it swings towards his arm. “I’m getting food first. Then I’ll dance.”

“Have some of the cheesecake,” she tells him, leading him into the back room. “Arya and I made it.”

“What flavour is it?”

“Lemon,” and then makes a face like it should have been obvious. Much like the snort earlier it’s jarring seeing such an expression on Sansa’s face since from the age of eight she has sought to appear ladylike and perfect to the outsider. Jon isn’t an outsider so much but he still isn’t as privy to Sansa’s private habits as he was when they were all children.

“I don’t really like lemon flavoured things,” he says, adding, “but I’ll try a bit,” when she frowns.

“You get the cheesecake and sausage rolls and I’ll get us a drink.”

“Oh, I’ve got --”

“You can’t tell me you’re enjoying that beer -- you’ve been wincing every time you drink some,” she argues. “I’ve got some vodka back here in one of the bags; get the food and meet me back here.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he salutes, grinning at her scowl that dissolves into a grin.

  
  


.

  
  


After the sausage rolls and the cheesecake plus several doses of vodka Sansa gets to her feet, holding a hand out expectantly for Jon.

“Canadian Barn Dance is the dullest one,” Jon whines for the sake of it.

“Stop being negative, Jon, and _dance_.”

So he takes her hand and he braces himself; the music starts with a rogue cheer from somewhere along the side, and then it’s forward and hop and back and hop, out clap clap clap, and in for a waltz.

“You can dance,” Sansa exclaims, head thrown back in laughter as Jon falls back in in perfect time with the pair in front. She steps out and claps, stepping back in to clasp his hand, and then they’re waltzing for one, two, three, and back to the spin.

“You don’t have to sound so surprised,” Jon says, tilting his head up in a false show of offence. It’s fun, doing this, when they’re both slightly tipsy and they don’t have to pretend anything.

He remembers the night Sansa came home with a bloody nose and a mess of tears and bruises under her eyes like it was only last week and not several months ago. He had been staying over with Robb as he usually did at the weekends when she had flown through the front door and up to her room. With their parents out for the night it had been up to the Stark siblings plus Jon to plead with Sansa until she cracked open the door and beckoned Robb into her room. When he had thrown the door open five minutes later Jon had followed him without a thought, already sickeningly clear about what had happened. All threats towards Joffrey Baratheon had been systematically carried out over the week following their break-up without giving a damn about how powerful his parents were -- as Theon had so succinctly put it after they had left Joffrey with a broken nose and possibly a broken arm: no one fucks with the Starks.

He pulls Sansa against him quickly, realising they’re a step behind everyone else, and they stumble around a waltz. Sansa’s heels are huge but she clack clack clacks across the wooden floor, never losing her balance. They spin back out to do their clapping; this time Sansa slips for a split-second on a stray balloon and her leg shoots out in front of her, toppling her backwards. Before Jon can make a grab for her Theon steps forward from the pair behind and sets her right.

“My hero,” Sansa laughs, sending Theon a wink.

“Anything for you, babe,” he simpers, rejoining Jeyne who has been laughing all night.

“They’re going to get married,” Sansa tells Jon when they’re back to their waltzing. The music is slowing down slightly, indicating the end is near, and Jon wonders if he should ask her to join him for the next dance too. “Don’t you think?”

“They haven’t been together long,” Jon says. “How come you know so much about everyone else’s love lives?”

“It’s a gift, Jon,” she says, face serious, and then she breaks from the steps and twirls herself under his arm, a vast improvement from Jon and Rickon’s attempt earlier. “Have you spoken to Ygritte recently?”

“Not recently, no.” It hadn’t been a bad break-up exactly, just very abrupt, due to Ygritte’s spontaneous wish to travel the world and Jon not being able to follow her. “She Instagrammed a picture of her in Nepal a couple of weeks ago, though.”

“Nepal.” Sansa tilts her head, considering. “Hmm. It’s not on my top ten list of places to go but maybe when Ygritte comes back I’ll ask more about it.”

“And where is on your top ten list?”

“Denmark,” she says, hand small and soft in his as they join for the waltz again. “Anywhere in Scandinavia really. Scotland gets its fair amount of snow but up there it’s something else entirely -- it looks beautiful.”

“When Robb and I went to the Outer Hebrides last year it felt like we were so close to Norway; everything feels different up there.”

“We should go one day,” Sansa says then, a wistful sigh escaping.

Jon knows she means her and Jeyne or Margaery and not him but he makes a noise of agreement anyway.

“Come on,” she says when the music stops, pushing him gently so he moves off the dance floor. “I’m saving myself for another round of Strip the Willow. And so are you.”

“I’m never doing Strip the Willow,” Jon laughs, hand on her shoulder to keep them both steady. “I’ve still got the bruises from last time.”

Sansa tuts, hair dancing when she shakes her head. “You’re weak, Jon Snow.”

  
  


.

  
  


Loch Lomond is played and everyone stamps their feet and runs into the middle, chanting the words that seem to define gatherings like this. Arya, Sansa, Robb, and Bran join hands and circle their parents in the middle of the room, heads thrown back in laughter and huge smiles across their faces. Ned bends and lifts Rickon into his arms, their kilts matching in an adorable way that has the aunts and uncles cooing from the sides, and then Catelyn gestures for Jon to join them. The singer’s voice rises above the room and settles down around them, pulling them together for one last stamp and song.

When the lights come on and the feeling of togetherness fades slightly Jon finds Sansa in the crowd. She’s standing with Arya and Bran, heels dangling from one hand, the other gesturing wildly as she tells some story from uni last week. There’s an ease to her that Jon feels like he hasn’t seen for so long, even before she started going out with Joffrey and her whole image of the world shifted. He can’t pretend he knows everything about her but after basically living in the Starks’ house for most of his life he’s sure he knows a lot, as does she about him. Although Jon’s been closest with Robb and Arya, he and Sansa have gotten closer recently due to their love for books. It’s that gathering trust and friendship that has prompted Jon to think about Sansa in other ways, not as a friend or as some family member, but maybe something else entirely. Maybe.

“Did you have a good night, Jon?” Arya asks when he approaches them.

“It was good, yeah,” Jon says, nodding. “How come Gendry’s not here?”

“Working.” Arya scrunches up her nose in distaste. “He’s coming out now, though, do you want to join us?”

“Jon’s not going to like that place you and Gendry go,” Sansa butts in before Jon can answer. She turns to Jon, eyes wide. “Honestly, they charge three pounds for a vodka and they’re not even that strong plus the music’s awful.”

“Three pounds is a lot,” Jon agrees. “Thanks for the offer, Arya, but I think I’m just going to go for some chips then head home.”

“I could go chips,” Sansa says, rocking back onto her heels.

Which was sort of the aim of the conversation without Jon really intending it to be. “Yeah?”

Sansa nods. Her lips are stained pink from the cranberry juice she’s been mixing with her vodka and her hair is falling out of the plaits that have held up for most of the night. “You’ll need to give me a cokey back, though, my feet are aching.”

“I can do that,” Jon promises.

Sansa smiles at him, long enough that he wants to duck his head so she won’t see the blush rising on his cheeks, like he’s fourteen again and never so much as talked to a girl.

“In a couple of months I’ll be able to come out after as well,” Bran pipes up.

“But until then, bye, Bran,” and Sansa bends to press a kiss to his cheek. “Make sure Rickon doesn’t stay up too late.”

“Have fun,” Bran calls as Sansa, Jon, and Arya make their way to the door.

“We will,” Sansa shouts over her shoulder before her hands go to Jon’s neck, somehow cold and warm all at once as she scrabbles for a hold. “Come on, Jon, I’m holding you to this.”

“She weighs a ton, Jon, watch,” Arya laughs, ducking with a squeal when Sansa’s shoes swing past her head. “I’ll see you at home later,” she says, cutting down a side street a few minutes later.

And then it’s only Jon and Sansa left. Sansa is clinging to Jon’s back, breath quick and hot in his ear where she’s leaning forward. She weighs barely nothing at all but he pauses every few steps to adjust her so she doesn’t slide off onto the pavement.

“Where shall we go?”

“Chips taste good anywhere,” he says, taking a right down onto the main street. For a Saturday night it’s not remarkably busy; they pass only a few people as they make their way towards the main strip of pubs and chippies.

“Oh, that’s where you’re wrong, Jon,” Sansa exclaims, tapping a finger on his cheek. “You have so much to learn.”

The words have a promise of more to them which Jon is more than happy with and so he takes the two of them to where Sansa is pointing and he buys her chips and cheese and he tries not to smile too much when the night ends with an invitation to come round the next day.

“I know you’re Robb’s friend mostly,” she says, back on the ground but swaying a little on her bare feet. “But maybe you can be mine too.”

“I’d like that.” 

Sansa grins, one of those rare ones that light up her whole face. “Good. See you tomorrow.”

  
  
  



End file.
